Flashes of Hell
by Miss Pyromaniac
Summary: Here, in the thick of war, there is a certain truth that not even the strongest soldier can escape. It burns in the back of your mind as you burn your victims in the name of corruption. "They're all humans. And you're killing them."


**Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, its plotline, or its characters -- those go to their creator, Hiromu Arakawa.**

If I did own it, Roy wouldn't be blind. D: -hugs him-

* * *

He took a step forward, eyes narrowing further against the smoky gray haze about them. It didn't help that here, in an alley, there was little light to be found. But that didn't matter. The flames that had ignited in the street behind him had revealed this to be a dead-end. His prey would not escape.

"You cannot run." His voice was smooth and commanding, a merit that any seasoned soldier should have. Too many had lost it. But not him; scraps of pride still raised his shoulders and stiffened his back as he let the words fade into the dusty air. The hunched figure against the back wall, just barely silhouetted, gave a shudder; the raven-haired man noticed, and felt a cruel tinge of accomplishment. Of course this ragged creature before him was afraid. The fair-skinned blue-eyed ranks had all but annihilated his people and wiped his culture from the face of the earth. No… He was human. But you couldn't keep that in mind while you burned their corpses. It broke you far too quickly. And in a world like this, you had to stay alert and quick; you had to survive.

"Then why do you hesitate?" The reply, raspy from dusty lungs, was hard to make out among the distant shots and cries. But try as he may to disguise it, there was fear laden in every syllable. The soldier almost felt a pang of guilt – but no, this pitiful being wasn't human. The reminders came constantly. But ironically, they never quite seemed to work.

_They're all humans. And you're killing them._

Weakness could not be shown, and the man was good at hiding behind both the facade of the shadows and the mask he wore each day. There was the briefest silence, but time was not generous. This couldn't take forever: superiors were waiting for their report. "There have been reports that you have a Philosopher's Stone in your possession."

Indeed, there were few who believed such reports. An Ishvalan with a Stone? It was absurd. These were a people who believed in their own god; they saw alchemy as a sin created by lustful humans to perfect the beauty that their god created. The Philosopher's Stone was a vessel for that dark magic. Yet, it was a dangerous threat, even if it came from rumor, and the military could not risk such power in the victim's hands.

For perhaps a mere second the haze cleared, and the Major's slanted onyx eyes caught a glimpse of a dark smirk on his prey's thin lips. Crimson eyes held the smallest spark of… He hesitated to name it. Resistance had been lost from people's eyes since the State Alchemists had been summoned. It had always been drowned out by impeding fear. Yet here it was, in all its shining glory.

Since the crumpled man said nothing, the man chose to continue. "I have direct orders to obtain such an object from you. The military will not allow—"

"Damn you and your corrupt propaganda! Ishvalla has forsaken this land, but that doesn't mean you can destroy me. I'll not be taken so easily!" The harsh words stung the dark-haired soldier, causing him to stumble. It hadn't been a personal offense; the shock was of this creature's abandonment of his own revered god, tossing the name aside without hesitation. It was unheard of.

The Ishvalan sensed his predator's falter, and took advantage of the moment. When the uniform-clad man came to his senses again, the bricks that had once marked the back wall of the alley were now a disorganized pile of bricks. Damn it! With all the demolition in these god-forsaken towns, nothing was stable anymore. The collapse had provided a smokescreen that the fugitive wasted no time in using to his advantage. For good measure, the soldier raised a mottled white glove and snapped; a spark of flame cast the airborne soot aglow, but he who had escaped into it was long gone by now.

Gritting his teeth in frustration, the man kicked one of the stray bricks and hardly bothered to watch it tumble before turning on his heel and walking briskly out into the soft glow of evening. What frustrated him was not that he had failed to accomplish his task, that he had lost his prey in the wreckage. It was the wreckage itself. He hated this place, hated the smog and the smell of burning corpses and the flickering flames created by his own hand. War wasn't supposed to be fair, but your enemy usually had a means of fighting back. If anything, he envied the ragged Ishvalan man who had escaped. He had dared to defy his murderers, one single act of bravery in a sea of fear and hopelessness. It created more work for men like him, it delayed the day that this would end. Very few did not dream of the day that they could return home to waiting family and friends. But at the same time, it was a treasonous sense of comfort to know that Ishval had not yet completely given up on its world.

* * *

Hope you liked it!

I go the idea during a warm-up prompt in my Creative Writing class not long ago ("A fire burning within").

As of now, I'm debating as to whether I should leave it as a short story or go on with it; I've got a few ideas as to where it could go. For now, though, I've decided to leave it like this. If I get enough encouragement to continue it, then I will. Otherwise, it'll stay a one-shot.

So if you want to see more of this, revieww~!


End file.
